


Sherlock, Big Game Hunter

by CaseyF



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cockroaches, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 05:42:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5236442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaseyF/pseuds/CaseyF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock latest experiment *bugs* the heck out of John and leads to some results the detective may just be unaware of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock, Big Game Hunter

Well, this was new.

 

Faced with Sherlock's trouser-clad rump directly level with his gaze, John halted a few steps from the top of the stairway and the landing leading to 221B.  This was not the view he normally had of his taller flatmate.  Hmmm.

 

It looked ... different from below.  Not as ... round.  John usually didn't have time to survey the scenery while following Sherlock up a fire escape or elevator shaft or whatever, but yes, _it_ looked different from this vantage point.  Hmmm.

 

John flash-backed to the moment he felt his foot perfectly align with the football.  Angle, force, everything just so, and - GOAL!  He was the hero of the day.  At fourteen, it really meant something.

 

A couple more stairs to go and if Sherlock just ... stayed ... still so John could apply his loafer-clad foot to that sweet curve and WHACK!

 

... [Silence.  A _whrrrr_ in his head like an old-fashioned tape rewinding as John's brain stuttered, tried to reboot, review the troublesome glitch causing a break in his regular programming.]

 

Viscerally clear image of foot to arse remains.

 

Visceral delight at image.

 

Ungodly glee at the look on Sherlock's face as John unleashed a bit of frustration.

 

[Glitch.]

 

_I would never do that.  Never hurt anyone._

 

**_But you've killed._ **

[Glitch.]

 

_To save, protect._

Reboot successful.  John drew a breath, eyes still on Sherlock's rear end, hands fisted at his sides.

 

_I could never hurt him.  Doesn't mean I don't fantasize now and again when he's being a jackass._

His eyes follow the pull of trousers as Sherlock moved, turning his head to look at John over his shoulder.

_Even if I did kick him in the rear end, I could kiss it better._

[Glitch.]

 

[Whrrrrr.]

 

[Glitch.]

 

Reboot in progress.

 

A vivid image blooms in John's mind:  his hand soothing over Sherlock's bare skin, caressing away any sting.

 

[Glitch.]

 

Sharp inhalation.

 

No time to reboot; Sherlock's eyes, a bit manic, are glaring at John, his hair still bobbing from his swift turn.  The gloom of the stairwell hides the details and John is spared trying to ascertain which colour of the spectrum his mercurial friend's eyes reflect, as well as Sherlock noticing John's own visage.  He has no doubt that it reflects the mess in his head.

 

“John!  Back already?” Oh, innocence, your avatar has never been a Holmes.  As if he hadn't heard the door below, nor John footsteps.  “Could use your assistance then.  Experiment!”  Huge grin.

 

Because John was born yesterday.  Obviously.  Because John has never been sincerely apologized to and then sweetly drugged by Sherlock.  Because John has never been left to calm down an irate D.I. or ten in Sherlock's wake.  Because that grin doesn't have desperation as a primer coat.

 

“Experiment, your lush arse,” he rejoined and feels a massive grin take over his face.  Ha!  John Watson, comic virtuoso!  Sherlock's arse!  Ha!  Sherlock's an arse!  Ha!

 

(Look, a guy takes his fun where he finds it.  A clinic full of runny noses and a flat full of moody genius do not always provide a day's quotient of what could be termed innocent fun.)

 

“What?”  Neck still twisted around, Sherlock seems to only then realize his position vis-à-vis John's line of sight.  “Oh.  Well done you.  Ha ha.  Très drôle, John.  Now -  AHA!”

 

John flails to grab the bannister, even as he tries not to overbalance backwards and down the stairs. 

 

“What the FUCK?” he yells, fingers clamping onto the wood railing, each foot on a different step, system still ready for action, eyes searching for danger.

 

Sherlock has rounded on the landing in what can only be termed a pounce, rump now towards the flat, head at the baseboard to John's left.  His hands fiddle with tweezers and a sample dish, and then John is faced with a full-on Mad Scientist, as Sherlock kneels up, shoving the plastic dish under John's nose.

 

“Got the buuger!  I bloody got the bloody buggering bugger!” he exclaims, eyes gleeful and looking at John like he, too, should be ecstatic and why for God's sake isn't he?

 

Still grasping the railing for dear life, John takes in Mad-Scientist Sherlock (illustrated dictionary version, complete with wild hair), kneeling on a level with him.  Another new experience today.  His eyes are drawn downwards to movement  - antennae!?!  Yes.

 

“Sherlock, is that -?”

 

His question is clipped off by Himself:  “A cockroach, John?  Indeed!  A very good specimen, too.  As soon as I reunite it with its brethren, I can begin -”

 

And John takes it as his turn to interrupt, if rather loudly.  “COCKROACHES?!?  You brought live cockroaches -” and he knows that he rants in this vein for a bit but all he sees is an image of his hand smacking Sherlock upside that head of curls.  He wouldn't even have to reach up; the Mad Scientist is _right_ in front of him, _just_ at the right height.  It would be worth it, wouldn't it?  It's deserved, isn't it?  Just one lovely WHAP, one firm little tap that slides right up and off that tousled do.  It wouldn't really hurt.  Hopped up on cockroaches, Sherlock might not even notice.  He hadn't noticed the “lush” bit of John's comment, after all.

 

Apparently he'd stopped ranting and hadn't even noticed.  As if it had made any impact at all on MSS (Mad Scientist Sherlock, patent pending).  He'd risen, dwarfing John, turned on his heel and headed into the flat.  John found himself wondering if that was striding or flouncing _sans_ poofy dress or poncy coat; it certainly didn't qualify as walking.  John also found his gaze still attached to Sherlock's rear end. 

 

Odd.  He didn't think this had ever been an issue before.  Was he deceiving himself?  Had he lost memories?  God knows he seemed to suffer from some sort of interruption in brain service in the last little bit.  Maybe that wasn't a recent advent, but something he just hadn't noticed before.  Maybe he'd been imagining all sorts of stuff for eons and losing it with every reboot.  Maybe Sherlock was experimenting on him again?  Drugging him?  Maybe this was all a dream?  Although he didn't think his life was actually a TV show.  Hmmm.

 

Making his way into the flat, John doffed his coat and shoes and headed for the kettle.  Tea was needed.  Also, some form of sustenance.  And he had to clarify this cockroach situation with His Nibs.  Tea and food first; strength was needed before addressing the buggy issue.

 

Kettle on, various leftovers heating, John opened a cupboard to grab a plate.  There was a twitch of something brown in one of its corners and even though it wasn't logical, his army-honed reflexes took over and John hit the deck, yelling “Down!”

 

Fucking hell, that hurt.  But Sherlock had _listened_ \- miraculous - and was kneeling on the floor, half under the kitchen table, alert and looking at John questioningly in the silence.

 

Maybe he'd mistaken what he thought he'd seen?  John raised himself to peer into the cupboard.  Up onto his tiptoes to see into the corner, and there it was. 

 

“Come get your fucking cockroach, Sherlock.  And then you're washing every dish we have.”

 

Really, did anyone else have to put up with this shit on a daily basis?  John rather thought not.  He was no longer sure that violin serenades were adequate compensation, either. 

 

“John?”

 

“Hmh?”  John had claimed his tea and nothing was spoiling that special moment of the first sip.  Sherlock could go hang himself.  He likely knew exactly how to do so most effectively.

 

“John, your reflexes were most impressive.  You could have saved our lives.”

 

“Stuff it, MSS.  Flattery is not going to spare you my wrath this time.  And you're still doing the dishes and disinfecting every surface in here.  Might as well do the flatware while you're at it.”

 

“Wrath, John?  Really.  That's a bit over the top, isn't it?”

 

John snorted into his tea.

 

“Eloquent as ever, Dr. Watson.”

 

John slurped tea loudly to make an emphatic point. 

 

“What's 'MSS'?  Is that some internet thing you're moving on to now that you've mastered emoticons, if not touch-typing?”

 

“Not quite.  But I'm sure you'll be hearing it more and more.”  John had just decided to adopt the term when talking about Sherlock to Lestrade, Molly, Mike, Mrs. Hudson, all and sundry, generally.  It was easier to text than typing out his full name or even “the madman.”  Of course, he'd have to tell them what it meant.

 

“Another pointless cultural reference, I take it.”

 

John further decided to employ the term on his blog.  Although his readers mainly knew Sherlock as a detective rather than as a scientist, so maybe that wouldn't work.  Hmmm.  Something to ponder.  MSD?  Mad Scientist Detective?  It didn't have quite the right ring to it.

 

“May I have some of that, John?”

 

Sherlock had taken out two plates, washed them, and was now gesturing to the food John had heated up.  Oh, the slyness of him.

 

John had to give him the eyebrow.  Not nearly as effectively as Mycroft managed but he kept practising.  “If you think eating is going to work where flattery didn't ....”

 

“John!  I am hurt that you think I would -”

 

“Oh, stuff it, Sherlock,” John answered without any real edge, “of course you can have the food, provided you EAT it.  That it's not for your pet cockroaches or something.”

 

“Ahem.  Yes, about that ...”

 

“Food first.  I can't face this on an empty stomach after the day I had.”

 

“Yes, but ...  John, I never meant to-”

 

“Eat, MSS.  And let me eat.  We'll address your latest no doubt scintillating mess up after my frayed nerves have settled a bit.  Between work, nearly being hurled down the stairs, cockroach bombs in the cupboards, and having your arse in my face-”

 

John realized that he may have said a bit more than he intended to.

 

“My _lush_ arse.”

 

“You did say _lush_ earlier, John.”

 

“It's just an expression, Sherlock.”  Nice recovery, John thought.  He could only trust that his face wasn't too red.

 

Pensive chewing.

 

“Too bad.  I wouldn't mind having a _lush_ arse.”

 

Snorting food out of one's nose hurt much more than snorting tea did.  It had been a long time since John had two such episodes to compare within a short time frame.

 

“A _lush_ arse could be helpful in distracting a suspect during interrogation.  Maybe even in gaining a witness's attention.  It has been pointed out to me many times that my personality can be .... off-putting.  Maybe I need to reassess other resources at my disposal.  An appealing rear end might be useful.  Maybe I should start doing some exercises to ensure my _lush_ arse remains ... appealing.”

 

John wished Sherlock would stop saying 'lush,'  let alone emphasizing it.  'Lush' rang through his head over and over in Sherlock's posh accent and deep voice.  The word took on a positively lusty tone, flowing into the naughty implications implicit in the term 'arse' and paired with 'appealing.' 

 

[Glitch.]

 

When John rejoined the world, he was eating mechanically and MSS was staring off into space, his own plate empty.  Hmmm.  It appeared John had lost several minutes there, minutes lost to Sherlock's  lush arse and its appeal.  Christ. 

 

As a doctor, John rather thought he should be worried about these glitches.  As someone with PTSD, he'd been through worse, lost time and peace of mind to worse things.  As a man, he was a bit confused, although, again, life had shown him that tastes could change, people could change until you'd hardly believe Joe Blow was your old primary school friend when you saw ran into him forty years later.   His own best mates from his younger days had essentially freaked out when he joined up;  how could a medical man, dedicated to healing and saving lives, defend enlisting, they wondered loudly.  So either he had changed drastically in a short period of time or they had never known him at all.

 

And the things he'd seen over there had only reinforced his belief that change was inevitable.  He'd hated what he'd changed into upon his discharge, but he'd held onto the hope that he could evolve yet again for the better.  Even those days when he'd considered aiming his final shot at himself, aghast that he'd become _this_ , could even accept ending his days as _this_ , something had told him to just hold on.  Change was coming again.  As proof that the universe works in mysterious ways, Mike Stamford had brought Sherlock into his life.

 

As Sherlock's flatmate, John only wondered that he hadn't started going cuckoo sooner.

 

Maybe he'd didn't know himself at all?  Wasn't anyone's self-image built as a reaction to the world around them?  It was a lonely support group that had to factor one Sherlock Holmes in as a component of daily existence.  If others had to deal with him, maybe they'd also experience these (for lack of a better word), glitches?  Maybe they'd start finding their flatmate's rear end a point of some interest?  Notwithstanding a total lack of interest in those of the same sex for the previous entirety of their existence?

 

Did Sherlock's rear end possess super powers? 

 

“Mmmph!!!” John snorted food out his nose yet again.  Had to be some sort of record.  Ouch, fuckity fuck.  But he was still laughing, the notion of a SuperAss too much for him.  SuperAss!  Sherlock could be such an arse, really.  Trust SuperArse! Sherlock to have SuperArse powers!  Naturally, a super ass would have to wear tights.  No choice about it.

 

John lost it, laughing until his sides ached, Sherlock setting him off yet again with a befuddled and somewhat worried look.

 

___________________________

 

It turned out that Sherlock had allowed eight new friends into 221 Baker Street.  They'd arrived in a sealed container that the genius, like so many normal folks, had nearly hacked his hand off in an effort to get open following the “open here” arrow.  As it the wont of the contents of such “easy to open but secure to ship” packages, everything had come flying out and landed SPLAT on the floor.  The packing peanuts descended like confetti, the plastic container holding the bugs had shattered and its inmates ran for the cracks and crevices of 221B.  Maybe even 221 A and C.  Mrs. Hudson, calm in the face of the CIA and MSS, was going to go mental. 

 

Seeing no reason to rob her of a night's sleep when tomorrow would serve just as well, John had given Sherlock a day to trap all eight insects before he'd tell their landlady and they'd be deprived of baked goods for several weeks.  Surely at some point she'd reach her limit and toss them both out?

 

Leaving Sherlock crawling around on the floor in the dark with a torch in hand and rump once again in the air, John headed for a shower.  MSS assured him that the dark would make the 'roaches confident enough to explore their new digs and then he'd “get 'em, John!”

 

The words “I'm sorry” had yet to be uttered.  Not that it mattered.  Not that John expected an apology.  But he'd had several new experiences today and would have been glad if just one didn't fuck with his head entirely.

 

The shower felt lovely but he must have [Glitched.] a couple times during it because he didn't recall getting out or drying off, and yet here he was half asleep in bed.  Hmmm.

 

****

 

Most people wouldn't have been pleased to see a container of wriggling insects on their kitchen table with breakfast, but John had repeatedly proven that he wasn't most people, now hadn't he?  It looked like MSS had had a fairly successful time of it into the wee hours and was now sleeping off his Big Hunt.  Food and sleep in the same twenty-four hour period; truly, it had been a day of new experiences.

 

Tea in one hand, John tilted the container in his other, managing to count five of the cringe-inducing creepy-crawlies.  Three still at large, eh?

 

His mobile rang, showing Greg Lestrade's picture, smirking at John from behind a pint.  Yes, John was getting the hang of all the bells and whistles on his phone.  He'd had the help of Greg's twelve year old daughter, but still.  Better suffer her eye-rolls than Sherlock's derisive sniffs.  Of course Sherlock didn't set profile pictures; HE hardly even bothered with a contact list, claiming it was faster to input a number from memory.  God, he could be such a prat.  Too bad it made John smile even at the thought of him. 

 

[Glitch.]

 

Phone ringing.  Right.

 

“Mad Science Central.  How may I direct your call?” he enquired of Greg.

 

“Jesus, John.  It's first thing in the morning.  Has he been at the crazy already?”  

 

“Continuation from yesterday, actually.  But he's asleep and he ate last night, so that's progress.  Also, he's well on his way to cleaning up the mess.  I might not even have to tell Mrs. Hudson, if he finishes up before she pops in.”

 

“Your army training really does serve, eh?  Nerves of steel, our John Watson.”

 

“Aside from nearly jumping out of my skin twice last night, maybe.  Might also be that I am a bit slow in the head, Greg.  Old gray matter got left behind in Afghanistan and I didn't notice.”

 

“We all feel stupid next to His Highness, John.  And you live with him-”

 

“That's what I mean.  Can't be in my right mind!”  But John was laughing as he said it.

 

“Pretty much a given my friend.  You _look_ normal but that's about it!  Had us all fooled for a bit but now we're wise to you.  Not sure who's crazier - you or Sherlock.”

 

“Speaking of,” John ventured, “I've got a new name for him:  MSS, stands for Mad Scientist Sherlock.  So if you see that in my texts ...”

 

“Right.  Not bad.  Better than others we've heard,” Greg left out mentioning Sally Donovan's moniker for the consulting detective specifically.  “Well, whatever we're calling him, he's not answering his phone and I could use him over in Whitechapel.”

 

Seven hours later, Sherlock had come, seen, deduced, and was flying high even though the case hadn't lasted nearly long enough for his tastes.  “Come, John,” he invited slash commanded. “Dinner!  Angelo's or something else?  I think I am actually going to eat.  Again.  Astonishing.”

 

“Take away,” John answered firmly.  “Time is almost up.  You have go to get back to-”

 

“JOHHHHNN!”  Whiny Sherlock was nobody's favourite.  “I've been crawling about for HOURS!  I was on the floor most of the night!  My knees are KILLING.  Surely it can wait a bit!  Have mercy!  John!” 

 

The silence from the Yarders felt even heavier after Sherlock's very loud proclamations.

 

John didn't dare turn around.  He double face-palmed.  What had he done in a past life?  Really, could someone answer him? 

 

Feet shuffled next to him as Lestrade shifted his weight.  Then a snigger from Anderson and a muffled snort/laugh from someone else.

 

Well, no one ever died from embarrassment, had they?  (There's an experiment for Sherlock.  Or, more likely, for the poor slob who lived with him.)  John lifted his face, adopted military posture and turned to face the Yarders.  But what to say?

 

“John!”  Sherlock was still whining.  “The case is over, come on.  What are you-?  Oh.  OH!” 

 

John imagines that Sherlock had finally got around to taking a read of the faces around him, realizing that perhaps his words had another interpretation to most listeners.  A couple swift strides and Sherlock was back next to Lestrade, sneer firmly in place as he declaimed loudly, “I have NOT been taking a page out of THEIR book” - long finger pointing back and forth between Donovan and Anderson.

 

And SNAP, John's mind was flooded with quick images of just what the Yarders had imagined he and MSS doing, swamped by thoughts of long fingers touching, overtaken by -

 

[Glitch.]

 

He hadn't missed any time, it seemed.  Sherlock was still pointing, Greg was still trying not to smirk, Sally was still red-faced, and Anderson - oh, who cared about him?  John took a breath and found the words.

 

Sort of.  “'Roaches,” he got out - no way was he starting with the syllable 'cock' - “he let loose 'roaches in the flat and he's got to find them all or Mrs. Hudson is going to throw us out.”  Succinct enough, he felt, and shut up.

 

“Riiight,”  Anderson muttered.

 

“Oh, look, John,” Sherlock drawled, “another roach.   It must have followed us here.   How fortuitous.  Less work for me.  My knees thank you, Anderson.”  Turn, swirl coat and hair, and John was left to offer a weak smile before following.

 

****

Two hours later, a cup of tea in hand, John was theoretically indulging in a night of television but actually finding much more entertainment value in watching MSS play Big Game Hunter Sherlock.  They'd picked up food and knee pads, as well as some disposable little plates and cheap peanut butter to serve as 'roach traps.  MSS and his handy tweezers awaited all takers of this bait.  For now the lights were on, but Sherlock had affixed a lamp to a headband for his night's further adventures in the dark, once John went to bed.  John had agreed to hold off on informing Mrs. Hudson for another day, given the rousing success of the hunt the night before.

 

Sherlock had eaten, interrupting himself several times to spring up and then drop down onto the floor, tweezers flourished.  He'd continued the same ridiculous routine from the sofa, giving up insulting the telly to pounce when he spotted (or thought he spotted) movement.  It took steady nerves to even watch television in this household, let alone keep one's cup of tea intact.  All things considered, John thought he was to be commended for keeping his cool and relative sanity (no glitches in a while).

 

Reaching out for the remote lying beside him on the sofa, he felt the tickling brush of something _not_ plastic against his fingers.  A rapid glance had John wishing he either had his gun or wasn't too squeamish to squish a cockroach with his bare hand.  So the gun would be overkill, so what? 

 

“Sherlock,” he whispered and the big game hunter turned inquiringly.  John tilted his head meaningfully at the remote.  Instead of standing up and walking over, Sherlock crept the few feet to the sofa, knee pads catching on the rug, forcing him to raise his knees like a particularly challenged toddler.  Quietly the tweezers reached out until he closed them gently around the 'roach, dropping it into the sample case and closing it with a satisfied grunt.

 

And here was another new experience for John:  looking down at Sherlock.  Odd, his nose didn't seem quite so long and his hair seemed even curlier from this angle.  But there was no change in the intensity of the gaze Sherlock sent his way once he lifted his head.  He, too, seemed to be taking in the change in perspective. 

 

“Hmmm,” he cocked his head to one side like an inquisitive puppy, and from this angle, it really was rather charming a gesture, John thought.  “Your features look quite different from this angle, John.”

 

“Well, hardly a surprise,” John answered.  “You're used to seeing them from waaaay up there in the stratosphere and here you are amongst the little people.  Down on your knees, so _really_ little people.”

 

“Weren't you the one declaiming about political correctness the other day?  I fear you missed your own lecture.  And it was sooo enlightening.”  Sherlock's snotty tone removed the need for the big, fat “NOT”.

 

“So you _were_ listening.”

 

Sherlock sat back on his heels, sighing as if the world weighed heavily on his shoulders.  He twisted, placed the 'roach motel on the coffee table, then turned back to face John.  “I listen.  I just don't see the _point_ in all this _meaningless_ social-” and he cut himself off.

 

It was a conversation they'd had repeatedly.  John knew Sherlock understood, he just preferred to invest his energy in things he deemed more worthy than coddling the feelings of people who didn't seem to give a care for his own. John could entirely agree, but he also knew that playing nice was worth it in the long term.

 

At this point, where Mrs. Hudson would have patted Sherlock's face and murmured a questionably comforting, “Oh, Sherlock,” John wasn't quite sure what to do. It didn't seem nearly as daunting to touch him from this angle, so he leaned forward a bit and awkwardly patted Sherlock's shoulder.  Grey eyes stared up at him wonderingly, then a hesitant little smile broke through.

 

John returned it easily, then decided to return to his regularly scheduled experiences and reached for the remote again.  His wrist was caught just as his hand closed on the prize. 

 

“Let me disinfect that.” And Sherlock had popped off to the kitchen, remote in hand, leaving John staring as his own hand with a distinct sense of “ewww.”  He headed to the loo, made good use of the soap and hot water, and plonked himself back on the sofa after a quick glace to make sure the two remaining 'roaches weren't hogging his seat.

 

Sherlock shuffled back into the room, knee pads interrupting the flow of his pyjama bottoms and somehow drawing John's eyes to his ... um, midsection.  Yes, let's go with that term.  

 

[Glitch.]

 

“John?”

 

The remote was being waved in his face and John automatically took it.

 

“John?”

 

He looked up.  Sherlock must have realized something was off.

 

“What happened this afternoon-,” Sherlock seemed unsure how to proceed, distaste and written all over his face.  He drew a breath, lifted his head to look right at John.  “I believe I owe you an apology.”

 

Well, a red letter week all around, really.  A Holmesian apology.

 

What to say?  It was just another embarrassing episode in John Watson's life.  No one got hurt.  And Sherlock had evidently made great strides in interpersonal relationships.  That was worth rewarding.

 

“It's okay, Sherlock, but thank you,” he answered.  “I know you didn't mean it the way it sounded.  It's hardly your fault their minds are in the gutter.”

 

The detective seemed relieved.

 

“Actually,” John continued, “if it hadn't been me, if I wasn't the one - well, I don't know how Greg managed to keep a straight face.”  He found himself grinning at the recollection.  “You do rather put your foot in it sometimes.”

 

“It wasn't feet they were thinking about, John,” Sherlock smirked back and then they were both chortling.

 

When calm was restored, Sherlock went back to looking for cockroaches and John split his attention between the television and his flatmate, who now appeared to be investigating higher locales, stretching up on his tip-toes and clambering on chairs to peer onto the tops of furniture and light fixtures.  John wondered if he could get him to wield a feather duster while he was at it.  God, the view of that derrière as he strrrrretched for the top of a book case ....

 

[Glitch.]

 

John found himself staring at the television.  He turned back towards where he'd last seen that arse.  NO.  Where he'd last seen Sherlock.  And was confronted by the front of Sherlock's pyjama-clad anatomy.  With the lamp backlighting him, it was all very artistic and left little to the imagination.

 

[Glitch.]

 

He blinked, blinked again.  The television was still on, the same talking head blathering on.  Christ. 

 

It was beyond him, entirely out of his hands:  he turned towards Sherlock again.  Front of pyjamas, manly bits nicely outlined against the pulled cloth, dark hair against pale skin as the T-shirt was moved up along with Sherlock's arms. 

 

[Glitch.]

The same scene, nothing had changed.  Nothing had changed one iota.  John breathed.  Either time had frozen or he hadn't lost even a few seconds.  Maybe the glitches were getting better.  Sherlock's pyjama bottoms were awfully close to slipping down entirely.  John wanted that-

 

[Glitch.]

 

Forced reboot.

 

He was hard.

 

[Glitch.]

 

System crash.

 

Breathe.  Again.  He was losing it.

 

“John?  Are you okay?”

 

Shit, Sherlock had (obviously) noticed his sudden respiratory distress.

 

John faked a yawn.  “Fine, just tired.”

 

“Let me get the headlamp if you're leaving,” the detective's reply was a bit muffled as he lunged with one arm towards the corner of the window sill.  The pyjama bottoms slipped an inch, John saw movement in the front of them and this time he didn't try to look away.  Sherlock's eyes were busy elsewhere and John _looked._  

 

He took in the view and he allowed himself to indulge, felt himself get harder and just allowed it.

 

He knew his face was red.  One distant part of himself was trying to get his attention, glitching frantically, yelling that this was wrong, dirty, shameful, he was wrong for doing it, for being indulgent.

 

Another part of him was observing from some remove, neutral but seemingly a little bit proud.  Like a teacher whose student has surpassed him.

 

And then there was the rest of him:  utterly relieved, happy.  Finally, he was listening, paying attention.  Finally, something inside him ran around like a happy puppy, gleeful, delighted, free, at peace.

 

His brain didn't shut down, lightning didn't strike him, his world didn't crumble, his ego and id didn't clash in a big mess.

 

_So, I guess I never really knew me at all_ , he thought.  It wasn't rueful or worrying.  John felt instead a delightful little spark of something wondrous and beautiful take root:  if he could allow this, fall into this, explore this, accept that _this_ was part of him, what else was possible?  What did the future hold, if he could just keep finding new facets to John Watson?  Would they all be happy puppies?  What if he came across a part of himself that was truly awful?  Was he allowed to embrace that, too?  Or did that lead to becoming someone he could never accept?  Here there be dragons, indeed.

In front of his approving eyes, Sherlock turned, the arse that provoked an epiphany claiming John's field of view.  His own trousers got tighter as divots at the base of Sherlock's spine were revealed, pyjamas pulled taut right into his crack.

 

John licked his lips and _revelled_.  There was no question of wrong or right at any level of his being.  Just admiration, enjoyment, pleasure at the privilege of seeing this, appreciating finally what he'd never quite allowed to surface:  in John Watson's humble opinion, Sherlock Holmes was beautiful on every level.

 

He felt a soothing wave of energy move through his system.  Not a glitch at all.  Like a feeling of coming home, a warm bath on a cold night, a perfect cup of tea and a kiss goodnight all in one.  _It was quite powerful, this self-realization stuff,_ he thought.  _I'm rather done in, really.  Happy as can be, but beam me up, Scotty.  I'm done for today._

 

Softly laughing under his breath, John leaned forward, elbows on knees, and rubbed his face in both hands; it would help explain away his red face, if nothing else.  And give him a moment to convince the rest of him that it was time to settle down a bit.  Things still needed time to process and just because he was the new and improved John Watson didn't mean he was ready to jump Sherlock.  Or that Sherlock was ready for more than a shoulder pat.

 

The chair Sherlock had been standing on made a sort of squeaky protesting sound and John looked up to find long legs hanging off one armrest and the rest of the detective draped wearily over the rest of it.  His socks were filthy, his shirt twisted, and a moue of resignation clouded his face.  “I hate these buggers,” he muttered.

 

“Too smart, are they?” John asked.  Because he couldn't help it.

 

One baleful eye reproached him silently, then closed again.  It was enough; two might have done him in, really.

 

“Well, you still have the peanut butter.  Even the mightiest have their weaknesses.”

 

The grunt he got in return was about what that comment merited, John supposed.

 

****

**** 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, this story ended with the human characters taking their various realizations out for a test drive in the real world. Greg Lestrade stopped by to witness the last of the Hunt and John's epiphanies continued. Funny how that file disappeared and I could only recover what you find above, which ends at the point where I had stopped in my first go at the story. Maybe one day I'll rewrite the dirty parts :) but for now, this seemed worth posting just where it is.


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